


Full Mooned

by zosofi



Category: Sailor Moon - All Media Types, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF!Stiles, Crack, Greek and Roman Mythology - Freeform, Humor, Japanese Mythology & Folklore, M/M, Twist!, ao3 auction fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-06-05
Packaged: 2017-12-11 18:08:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zosofi/pseuds/zosofi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, the first thing that happens is that Stiles gets hit with some kind of dart right in the fucking jugular.</p><p>No, wait, the first thing that happens is that Rogue Hunter Group number 56,790 rides into town in their cavalcade of overpriced, gas-guzzling SUVs and does what every single other fucking cavalcade of Rogue Hunters do; make his life difficult. Yeah, that's probably—no, wait a fucking minute. The first thing that happens is that Creepy Uncle Fucking Peter bites Scott when he's sixteen.</p><p>  <strong> A fantastically cracky Teen Wolf/Sailor Moon mash-up requested by northamericanprince for the ao3 auction.</strong></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Part I of a TW/SM crossover for the always lovely [northamericanprince](http://northamericanprince.tumblr.com)  
> GUYS I DON'T EVEN KNOW? (it makes sense in the end trust me)
> 
> Also: No beta for this, so if you see a mistake or typo, please feel free to point it out :)

So, the first thing that happens is that Stiles gets hit with some kind of dart right in the fucking jugular.

No, wait, the first thing that happens is that Rogue Hunter Group number 56,790 rides into town in their cavalcade of overpriced, gas-guzzling SUVs and does what every single _other_ fucking cavalcade of Rogue Hunters do; make his life _difficult_. Yeah, that's probably—no, _wait a fucking minute_. The _first_ thing that happens is that Creepy Uncle Fucking Peter bites Scott when he's sixteen.

Yeah, okay. Stiles is good with that. The first thing that happens is that Scott gets bitten, and then high school becomes a shitstorm of blood and late nights and fucking _claws_. The thing that's happening now—the getting-shot-in-the-jugular-with-a-dart-that's-making-him-woozy thing—that's like the millionth fucking thing to happen. Billionth. Whatever.

But then again, the details of what came first and what came after isn't really important at the moment. What's important at the moment is that there's a dart in Stiles's neck, and he's propped up against a tree in the woods—it's a tree just like all the other fucking trees around him and _god_ Stiles fucking hates trees and forests and woods and the sound that leaves make when you're running on them—and Lydia is kneeling next to him, mascara running down her face as she tries to do something (he's not sure what?) with trembling hands. Maybe she's trying to pull it out, because there's a definite pulling sensation in his neck area. Maybe the dart has barbs.

It makes sense because it doesn't make sense, okay. This is Stiles's life. It's nonsensical.

Anyway, back to whatever this is. Stiles is splayed out, head resting against the rough tree trunk, blood all over the right side of his face and shoulder (he can feel it, can smell it). There's snot running from his nose and spit on his lips that he can't get the strength to wipe off and he thinks— _he thinks—_ there are some tears but whatever. They're man tears. Of manliness. Silent and meaningful and shit.

His chest is tight and heavy. His throat isn't in danger of closing up, though. He's almost unnaturally calm, considering the circumstances. And it's not like he's _used_ to stuff like this. Sure, he's more used to it than is necessary, but it's not like every time the shit starts flying he gets a face full of crap (it's a metaphor okay, it fucking works). He's just… there's no use panicking.

Lydia is yelling something at him, and he considers trying to listen to her, except his head is pounding and whenever he tries to keep his eyes open for longer than like, five seconds the world (which, granted, is full of dark shadows made dramatic by the full moon and trees, so many fucking trees, and leaves and the occasional boulder to add some excitement) starts looking like an LSD experiment gone right. So so so right.

"Fuckin' hell," he tries to say, except it comes out sounding more like, "fgghll," which is bad.

Probably. Stiles doesn't know because everything is numb.

He's not panicking, but he doesn't like this. He doesn't like that he can hear snarls now, and growls, and howling, but he can't do anything about it. He was out here to save Derek—or, he was out here so Scott could save Derek—and now he's… here. Collapsed against a tree. With Lydia resolutely trying to do something.

(He thinks the dart is out now. Doesn't matter, though, does it? It was meant to poison him with something, and whatever he's poisoned with is already in his bloodstream.)

His head tips forward, chin resting on his chest, and then it tips back—there's a time delay in there somewhere, he's sure of it—and Scott is in front of him. Derek's there too, of course. It's a good thing he's there—they came out here to fucking help him, of course he should be here—because if he wasn't it means all of it was for nothing. Boyd is off in the distance, standing over a prone body, claws out, back towards Stiles. Isaac is supposed to be here, but Stiles doesn't see him. Erica is walking out of the trees, eyes glowing red, face contorting into something angry when she sees him.

"Stiles." Scott sounds urgent; worried. "Stiles fuckin' _look_ at me, dude. I think we need to take him to Deat—"

"He's poisoned _idiot_." Ah. Lydia. "Of course we're taking hi—Derek, what are you—"

"I'm picking him _up_." Derek's voice is raw; wrecked from whatever the hunters did to him. If Stiles concentrates, he can focus on the rips in Derek's clothing and the dirty, jagged lines of red on his skin that look like someone tried to hack his arm in half with a chainsaw. "Scott, the car—"

"Stiles drove— _god_ , dude, slow the fuck down your _arm_ was almost ripped off," Scott says, and Stiles realizes he's getting picked up, strewn over Derek's back piggy-back style so his chin is resting in the crook of Derek's neck, arms hanging limply over his shoulders. It would be comfy—cute, even, if Stiles allowed himself to think about things like that—except he's drugged (in a bad way) and hurting and Derek just escaped after being lured into some sort of hunter trap and _god_ he's so tired of this.

He's nineteen. He's—fuck, Stiles doesn't know why him being nineteen should mean he doesn't have to do this any more. He just doesn't _want_ to do it anymore. He wants—he wants something else. Wants to come back home and not end up bleeding and poisoned. Wants to stop paying attention to the phases of the moon. Wants to stop doing double-takes every time the sun glints off a pair of sunglasses.

He wants Derek. He wants the warmth he's feeling against his front pressed against him without it being an emergency. He wants his hands all over Derek's skin without it being to punch him awake or pull him out of a polluted drainage ditch. He wants him to smile. At _anything_.

Fuck, he wants him so bad, and it's pitiful.

"Okay," Derek whispers.

* * *

Sometime during his dramatic rescue Stiles must finally drift off, because he's in his bed in his room, and he has no idea how he got here. It's morning—the sun is shining through the curtains—and he actually feels pretty good. Like, so good that you wouldn't even think that last night (he's assuming it was last night) he got shot in the neck with a dart. A poisoned dart.

Stiles clears his throat, reaches a hand up and presses it over the bandage covering his neck. There's pressure, a slight pain, but nothing that feels _wrong,_ nothing that feels like he's missing something important. Except something _is_ off. Whatever it is, it's not on him. He just has a feeling. Like the world isn't right, or the walls are too low, or the light coming from the window is too artificial, or—fuck, he'll just chalk it up to still being drugged with whatever he was drugged with.

He moves his head then, finally, and it's not as painful as he thought it would be. His phone is on the shelf behind his head, but he can see the cord from where it's plugged into the wall, and if he could just—

"Your father went to get groceries," a voice says, and Stiles freezes because it's not one he recognizes. He leans up, wincing as the movement pulls at muscles that are sore and achy, looks around, and…

There's a cat.

It's sitting at the foot of his bed, predator yellow eyes meeting his, covered in midnight black fur with a mark at the center of its forehead that reminds Stiles of a lumpy crescent moon (then again, everything these days reminds him of werewolf shit, so that's no surprise). Slowly, oh so slowly, it tilts its head to the side, as if it's waiting for him to say something, or respond, or just—

"Your father," it repeats, and oh god, its mouth is moving. Definitely moving. Stiles is definitely fucked. "Your father is getting groceries. The—" it stops as Stiles scrambles backwards, hits his head against his headboard and flails, ends up tangled in his sheets with his back on the floor and his feet on his bed, chest heaving. Something like a whimper escapes his mouth, except then the cat jumps down to sit on his chest, and he _freezes_. "Calm down," it says. Right. Yeah. Fucking _likely_. "This isn't a hallucination. I'm not here to hurt you. Your father went to get groceries. The other one—Scott?—took the hairy one somewhere. They were talking about a vet. And I'm here."

"You—" Stiles sputters out.

"Me," the cat says, "I'm Diana." And then it _bows_.

"That's great," Stiles gasps, "that's just fucking peachy. But first off, you're a cat, second, you're fucking talking. And I'm pretty sure a hallucination would say that they _aren't_ a hallucination."

The cat—Diana—rolls her eyes, stands, and bats at his nose with her paw. "If I was a hallucination, I don't think you would feel that. That's not important. You need to trust me, Stiles. There are things happening, and I—"

" _Things_ happening? And how do you know my name?" Stiles wants to go back to Berkeley. There are no talking cats at Berkeley. No werewolves, either. Just classes and parties and human problems that are so fucking _refreshing_ in comparison to this.

"Get up," Diana says, jumps back on the bed and looks down at him, "calm down, and I'll tell you."

Stiles takes a deep breath and swallows back all the retorts he has in response to that. Most of them are pithy comments that really have nothing to do with the situation, anyway. It's not like they would help him. It's not like sarcasm will block out the sight—and sound—of a talking cat. He sighs, gets up and walks over to lean against his desk, and by the time he's over there he's somewhat calm.

Hah. Calm. Right. Stiles hasn't been calm since… ever. Calm is overrated. Calm makes you lazy.

"Okay," he says, gestures for her to continue. He can't really look straight at her—if he does, he'll start freaking out. "Explain."

His neck isn't hurting anymore. Probably the adrenaline.

"My name is Diana," Diana says, "There are things happening in Beacon Hills, Stiles. Strange things. And you're the only one that can help."

"I'm the _only_ one—fuck, you know everyone I know in this fucking town is either a genius in some respect or a werewolf, right?"

"They're not you," Diana says forcefully, and her eyes glint for a bit. "They're not warriors."

"Right," Stiles says, looking around his room for either a weapon or a way out (there's the window and the door, and next to his desk there's his old lacrosse stick). "Warrior. That's me. Got me in one. I'm a warrior of—"

"—the moon. A warrior of the moon. Tsuki no senshi," Diana says, calmly. "A descendent of the Princess Serenity, a—"

"You have _got_ to be fucking kidding me," Stiles says, and even he's impressed with how monotone his voice is. Must be the shock. "I'm not Japanese. Also not a… warrior of the moon."

"The light of hope does not require senshi to be of a certain nationality or ethnicity," Diana says, a little prissily. She jumps down from his bed, sashays over—he's frozen in fear and panic and disbelief, which is the only reason he doesn't move—and jumps up on his desk, her tail winding around the arm he's using to steady himself as she does so. "The light of hope is timeless and only burns bright in those who are needed. Yours was dormant; now it's not."

"Right, sure," Stiles says, except Diana hisses and bats at his arm, this time with her claws out.

"It's the truth, Stiles," she says. He takes a step back and crosses his arms across his chest, mostly so she'll stop _hitting_ him.

"Okay," he says. If he walks slowly, he can get to his phone and call someone—anyone—to help him. Hell, if he just dived for it and ran out of the room it's not like Diana—no, the cat; if he keeps calling her by her name he'll start believing her—could really do any damage if he locked her in his room.

"Put this around your neck," she says, and Stiles looks from where he's been eying his phone to her. She has a… something in her mouth. There's a chain hanging from it, and it's large, glinting red in the light. "If nothing happens, then I'll leave."

"You really don't know anything about me if you want me to put that thing around my neck," Stiles says. "For all I know it's going to choke me."

Diana _sighs_ , and very obviously rolls her eyes. And then, before he can do anything—before he even sees her fucking _move_ —she's balanced on his shoulder, and there's a heavy weight settling around his neck.

"You fu—" he scrambles, throws her—she yowls—and tries to get it off, but it's _stuck_ , glued to the loose t-shirt he's wearing, at first, but then somethings starts _happening_ and his shirt starts disappearing and everything starts  _burning_.

... understandably, he starts to panic. Vaguely, his thoughts go back to last night, when even as his heart thundered in his chest and his eyes got heavy, he was breathing easily, was relatively calm. Now though; now it's different. Now he's panicked and scared and he can feel his throat closing up because it needs to come _off_ —

The pain starts. It's a nasty pain, something deep and dark and not at all natural. It feels like it's coming from his bones, from his very cells; feels like he's being pulled apart. He collapses, gasping for air, sobbing a little probably. He thinks, pitifully, that he calls for Dad once or twice. Scott, maybe. But they aren't here—if they were, they would've heard. Scott would've heard. Would've come up to help him.

There's a lot of… light, is all he's aware of. He feels his limbs start moving, feels himself stand up, unable to control his body, watches as ribbons of intense neon wrap around his torso (which is now naked? And burning? And painful?) and imbed themselves into his skin.

His feet definitely leave the floor, which means he's hovering. Which is bad. Probably.

The feeling of patterns—definitely patterns, he can feel the straight lines and curls and circles—being carved (fucking _carved_ ) into his skin is wrong and filthy and he's _scared_ , angry at himself because after all of the shit he survived in high school, after all the shit he's survived _period_ , he doesn't want to fucking die at the hands of a talking cat, evil skin cutting pendants aside.

Except he doesn't die.

The pain gets worse, turns into a burning, twisting, stabbing, itching pain, and stays that way for what seems like an eternity. Eventually though—let's go with eons later—it starts to change. Starts to get a little better, a little less "oh fuck I'm going to die" and more "oh fuck i am so screwed this is probably going to maim me forever." Not quickly—fuck, not quickly at all. It gets better, if anything, too _slowly_ , his bones aching and his blood burning for far too long for him to be of sound mind when it actually _does_ start to get bearable.

So when it stops—and when it does, he's not hovering anymore—he can't be blamed for collapsing to the floor in heap of useless, sweaty limbs, eyes closed, nails digging into the wood, heart pounding and breaths shallow and labored. He's cold—shivering, even. Scared and yet unable to move so he can _run_. He can't even fucking _hear_ anything over the rush of blood in his ears for the first few moments, and then he feels something hitting at his arm, and opens his eyes.

Dia—the cat. The evil fucking ca—he scrambles backwards, presses his back against the wall nearest him.

"Don't fucking com—"

"Look down," she says, and he... well, it's mostly instinct, but he looks down. The noise that escapes his throat is like… is like if a zebra got a hold of a vuvuzela. It's choked off and raw and pretty much sums up what he's thinking, actually.

"What. The fuck," he manages to croak out. There are gauntlets—tanned leather, carved with patterns that look like vines—covering his forearms and hands, and his legs are bare except for a pair of fucking boots—leather, sandals almost, very Romanesque—and a fucking _skirt,_ segmented and with little studs traveling down it's length. Or wait, it's not called a skirt, it's called a—

"It's a skirt," the cat says, and he glances up to see her looking perfectly serious, wonders if he was talking out loud or she's just a mind-reader. "We—the tsuki no senshi—are rooted in Roman mythology, Stiles. It makes sense that your transformation takes the form of a Roman gladiator, except your opponents are not in an arena, and they aren't human. They're worse, Stiles."

"See it didn't make sense when you spoke Japanese before and it still doesn't," Stiles manages to squeak out. He would stand—maybe start pacing—if his knees weren't weak. If he knew that they would actually support him. As it is he can barely sit up straight.

There's like _fabric_ underneath the leather strips of his skirt—canvas, cotton, whatever; it's white and wrapped around his dick and ass like he's wearing a diaper. A grown-up, gladiator style diaper. Slightly cooler, whatever, but still.

His chest is covered in some kind of armor—not leather; metal. Bright, shining silver that doesn't _feel_ like anything. It's freezing cold to the touch and there's a crescent moon carved into the center, simple and minimalist and it would be cool, if it wasn't _on_ him and if it didn't get that way through a process that Stiles never wants to experience ever again.

Which reminds him.

"What the fuck do you want?" he hisses, trying to get his face to look intimidating when, at the back of his mind, all he's thinking about is how fucking _ridiculous_ he looks.

"Personally? I want you to listen to me," the cat says. He's still refusing to use her name. He has some pride. "As a representative of the senshi, I want you to get up, use your senses and _find out_ where the yokai is hiding."

"The yokai as in,"—Stiles pushes himself to his feet, makes to dust his pants off before he realizes… there are no pants, and then looks down at her—"as in Japanese for monster. Which is the "strange thing" you were talking about earlier, which is _complete_ bullshit because strange stuff _always_ happens here, and—"

"The hunters who poisoned you weren't just any hunters, Stiles," she says as she walks back over to his desk and jumps up on it. "They were yokai. _Are_ yokai. From what I can tell, they came here with the harionago—"

"—the _what_?" Stiles asks. He really can't get any of the armor off. It's stuck—superglued to his skin (skin that's tender and sensitive and breaks out in goosebumps every time he accidentally moves too quick or pulls at the armor too much)—and his fingers are shaky and can't seem to grasp at anything.

"The harionago. The one you need to destroy."

"Listen, cat—" Stiles starts, a little desperately, letting his arms drop to his sides and leaning back against his wall.

"Diana."

"Listen Diana," he corrects, even though he doesn't want to, "I'm _really_ not the person you're looking for. I'm—there's a werewolf pack in town, and they are _so_ much better equipped for this kind of stuff than I am."

"You're in armor," the cat says. "Indestructible armor, might I add. Your light is growing even as we speak, Stiles. The goosebumps on your skin? The heavy limbs? The sensitivity? Tell me your vision isn't better. Tell me you can't sense that _something_ is amiss—"

" _Yeah_ , something is amiss. I'm in my room and a cat just fucking attacked me with a magic outfit… _thing_ , and—"

"And why do you think," she continues over him, "you've been allowed to run with your precious ookami for so long? Why do you think nothing has happened to you—?"

"Stuff _has_ happened to me. I get injured all the _time_. You would know if you actually lived here, _cat_."

"—why do you think you haven't died? Peter? The Kanima? Who could tread water for two hours with two hundred pounds of frankly _unthankful_ weight in their arms? Who could do what you did with the alphas? With the—"

"So you're saying my magic soul light jewel shit stopped me from dying." Stiles sighs, suddenly tired—too tired, even to find out how she knows all of that—and plops down on the beanbag in the corner nearest him. Dust flies up into his face, and when he's done coughing, the cat is sitting on his bed.

"Stiles, you have to trust me," she says, and he can't stop from snorting. "You're the only one that can kill the harionago. It's not a werewolf thing; it's not a hunter _thing_ ; it's a tsuki no senshi thing."

"Not their jurisdiction?" Stiles asks, finding it hard to make the sarcasm not too obvious. The cat beams at him, though.

"Exactly," she says. "Just… trust me this once. We find the harionago. You destroy it. We discuss our options from there." She stares at him then, expectant, and as he stares back Stiles starts to feel a little tickle at the back of his head.

"I'm in a skirt and I look like I'm in a cult," Stiles says, after a pause. "If we're going to be going _out_ , then tell me how I… turn this off."

"When the armor isn't needed anymore—when the threat is extinguished—it goes away on its own," the cat says, and Stiles has a second of panic as he imagines living his entire life encased in anime-style armor. Sleeping. Going to the bathroom. If he ever needs surgery he's fucked. And what about _sex_. Shit. Shit. _Shit_.

"I'm stuck like this—" he gestures at himself, admittedly his movements a little spastic— "until I do whatever it is that you… want me to do?"

"Right," the cat says, her eyes shifty. Fucker.

"Right," Stiles says. "And I can't call anyone because?"

"Because this isn't their business," the cat says. "Come on—the window is quicker."

She jumps from his bed to the windowsill and then looks back at him expectantly. "I don't have thumbs," she says. "You're going to have to open it."

"There's a door." Stiles gestures behind him at said door. Dia—the cat seems to contemplate it for a minute, and then scrunches up her nose.

"No," she says. "Practice your jumping."

"Practice my—" Stiles sighs and rubs at his temples, even as he walks over to the window. "And why, pray tell, am I supposed to practice my jumping?"

"… try it now," the cat says, looking at him, eyes all wide and innocent. "Just jump up and down right now to test it, and then you'll see why you need practice."

Stiles sighs again, gives the cat his best "are you serious" look, and then jumps. Except when he jumps, he uh, like _jumps_. The back of his head hits the ceiling, and then he's crashing back down onto the floor, arms curled underneath him and nose _centimeters_ away from getting broken.

"Holy shit," he gasps out.

"Practice," the cat says. "See? Now open the window."

"I hate you so much," Stiles says as he gets up. "So so _so_ much."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, no beta for this, so please tell me if you see any mistakes that need fixing.

The sad thing about Stiles's life is that he's ridiculously used to weird shit. Just… just really weird crap. Werewolves. Kanimas. Reincarnation. _Magic._ Living in a town that is like the Bermuda triangle of Northern California (no, seriously, how else do you explain that the majority of the town populace either, a) doesn't care that there are an egregious number of supernatural citizens per 100 hundred households or b) doesn't know that the supernatural exists even though it's _kind of_ obvious?).

So… he's used to weird crap as a general _theme,_ however the most recent weirdness—the magic and the moon destiny shit and his clothes disappearing and turning into… _this—_ is a certain brand of weirdness that Stiles is having a hard time accepting, even as he jumps, no, as he _bounds_ , over the rooftops of the houses in his neighborhood, following an asshole of a cat as she leads him somewhere.

From the looks of it, they're headed towards the preserve. Stiles isn't surprised about that. The preserve is like the secular hellhole of Beacon Hills. It _attracts_ trouble like a fucking Venus flytrap. Maybe it _is_ a Venus flytrap and it lives off all the bodies they've buried there over the years.

"Stiles," Diana yells. She's on the next roof over, perched at the apex, tail twitching impatiently. "I know she's in the preserve. I don't know anything else. You're going to need to use your senses soon or this is all going to be for nothing."

"Your people skills need work," Stiles mutters, takes a running leap, and only barely manages to land on his feet. If there weren't physics involved—if he could, you know, just jump and _bam_ , instantly go where he wanted to go—the jumping thing would be cool, but there is, and it's not. Diana says he's not going to break anything if he _does_ fall, but it's principle of the thing, really.

(Apparently, jumping isn't all he can do. "You'll see," Diana had said, because everyone except Stiles loves being mysterious and enigmatic, "your powers will work for you once you let them. Once you open up.")

"My charges usually aren't so averse to the idea of being a hero," Diana says, mid-jump. He can hear her because his hearing is better. Really good, actually.

"Yeah, well, your previous charges were idiots," Stiles says, and Diana glares at him, doesn't say anything else the rest of the way to the preserve. Which is fine. He doesn't like her anyway.

They're passing the charred remains of the Hale house—around November of last year, it collapsed completely, so now it's even more _ruiny_ than before. Derek doesn't come out here, as far as Stiles can tell. He's managed to stop the county from bulldozing it down all the way though, so far.

Stiles understands why he does it. Doesn't mean it doesn't piss him off, but he understands, and it's not like Derek needs—or wants—his help with something this personal. Stiles figures it's better if he lets it go on his own time.

But… but anyway. Derek isn't here ( _why not!?_ Stiles rescued—helped Scott rescue—him yesterday. The least he could do is _try_ to find him. Shit.) and Stiles is in the middle of some hero quest, and he's probably going to die, so it's not the time.

It's never the time, but whatever.

Something screams, high-pitched and inhuman, bracing enough that he stops, clenching his hands to his sides and crouching down, trying to make himself smaller, eyes searching the treeline—he hates forests; they're dense and dark and they breed mystery, and Stiles has a specific kind of hate for supernatural mystery—for any clue as to where the sound is coming from.

"It's her," Diana whispers, and he startles because she's perched on top of his shoulder and he doesn't know how she got there. "The harionago. She knows we're here."

Stiles snorts and pushes her off. He has a feeling that they need to go the right, but he's not going to fucking tell her that. Instead he just starts walking. She makes a very cat-like sound of disapproval and follows.

They're two miles into the forest proper—Stiles knows this because he knows the preserve like how he knows what he likes when he's jerking off—when the trees start to look _off_. They're darker here, more twisted, more _dense_ somehow. Like something has taken the trunk and squeezed all the air out of it. On some of them there are gauges—deep, with no visible pattern, oozing dark black gunk that reminds him of the stuff the werewolves always throw up when they've been poisoned with wolfsbane.

"It's close," Diana whispers, and Stiles is in the middle of turning—to mock her, ask how she knows, ask what the _hell_ a harionago is anyway—when about half a mile off, there's the sound of a twig breaking under something's foot, and he freezes. He sniffs, instinctively, glad that no one is around to call him an idiot when he realizes he's doing it.

Listen, okay, he's been part of werewolf culture for more than three years. There are some habits you pick up as hard as you try not to.

There's a thrumming under his skin, though, that isn't normal. It's not fear or adrenaline or anything human. It's a definite _thrumming_ , concentrated around the blue lines carved into his skin, potent and burning and as he starts walking again—more quickly, this time, keeping his breathing as calm as possible—they start to grow brighter, start to feel like they're squeezing at his limbs and organs.

Another scream, closer this time, and soon after, someone… yells his name.

Scott. Scott yells his name.

Stiles freezes, stands straight, looks around, his heart suddenly pounding. Next to him, Diana is hitting at his foot with her head, trying to get him to move. But it's _Scott_. He has to be here, he has to—

" _Ignore_ them, Stiles," Diana hisses. "The harionago—you _need_ to destroy it. They won't survive if she finds them. _You_ won't survive."

Stiles starts moving again, but not where he wants to go—not towards Scott, who, hopefully is going to catch up with him—but towards the last place he heard the screams coming from. There's a heavy feeling in the air now, something wrong, something _palpable_. If he looks too closely, it's likes the trees around him are swaying, are see-through, are really just figments of his imagination. But they're not; he knows because earlier, right after he had climbed out of his window and jumped to the ground, he had pinched himself just to make sure.

Another scream this time, closer, and then suddenly there's a whoosh of air, and it's crazy but the air _feels_ wrong. It feels like it goes through him, wraps around his lungs and squeezes, feels like it's saying something that he can't quite understand and then it's gone and he's running.

"Watch out," Diana says, maybe a minute later, when the sky is so dark it should be night, but it's _not_ —it was noon like an hour ago—and dread is a concrete ball in Stiles's stomach, "for her hair. That's where her power comes from. The harionago."

"Stiles!" Scott screams again, from somewhere close, somewhere that Stiles can't _see_.

Suddenly there's an intense pressure on his chest, an acute pain that reminds him of the time one of the Alpha twins—fuck he still doesn't know which one is which—punched him right in the solar plexus, and he's flying backwards. There's a hiss from Diana and then his back is hitting up against a tree and pain is shooting down his spine and out from his limbs. His vision is swimming, technicolored and blurry like he's in the middle of an LSD high, and then a shadow falls, a hand or an arm or a _tendril_ of something wraps around his neck and starts squeezing.

"You're different," a voice whispers in his ear, high-pitched and female, lilted in an accent that Stiles doesn't recognize. "I wasn't expecting them to send a man."

"Stiles," Diana hisses from somewhere nearby. He can't see the details of whatever it is that's holding him—his vision is still blurry, getting blurrier, actually, because whatever it is has a chokehold on his neck—and he's too busy struggling (blindly) to pay attention to anything happening around him. "Stiles _cut off her hair_."

Oh. Okay. Except that. He heard that.

" _Hair!?"_ he screeches, grabs at the wrist of whatever is holding him. Its skin feels like his elbows—rough and almost leathery, and its features are coming into focus, all harsh angles and sharp teeth, grey skin and… and fucking _hair_. Shit. Its hair is long and black, and it's _sentient_ , wrapped around his arms and his torso, light enough that he can't fucking feel it but _shit_ can he see it. There are barbs at ends of each strand, unnoticeable if Stiles wasn't freaking out, and those barbs are currently pointed at him, fanned out around the harionago's face and weaving too and fro like those cobras you always see on the discovery channel.

"What," he whispers, stunned enough that his grip on her—its—wrists gets slack, "the everloving fuck."

She takes the opportunity to throw him against another tree, but at least this time he doesn't stay down long enough for her to get a hold on him.

"Senshi," she hisses. "Aren't you a little far from home?"

"No," Stiles gasps out, dodging hair and limbs mostly by rolling away from them. Diana is around here somewhere, and once Stiles gets a second, he's going to throw her in the drainage ditch. Or a pond. Drive to the nearest beach and throw her in the ocean. "I live like ten miles from here."

She screams, which means she either doesn't appreciate his brand of humor or is in the throws of another demonic tantrum (honestly, Stiles doesn't know which one it is). One of her hair… thingies. Tendrils. He'll call them tendrils. One of them catches at his ankle, wraps around it, and starts pulling him towards her.

When she moves, it's jerky, demented, her limbs gangly and skeletal.

"Senshi you useless little shit!" Diana screams, and oh wow, the fucker isn't even doing anything and she gets to insult him. "Fight _back._ Grab her _hair_. _Pull_ it out if you have to."

Stiles scrabbles at the hair wrapped around his ankle, but she gets her leathery hands around his throat. Little pinpricks of pain flare up as her hair scratches at his skin, but those aren't important. What's important is keeping her mouth—the very definition of a gaping maw, demon breath included—from closing in on his face. He doesn't know what she wants to do—if she wants to eat him or suck out his soul or possess him because Diana _didn't tell him anything_ —he just knows that he doesn't want her to do _it_.

He fucking swears, if it turns out the _Ringu_ ghost is real he's never going to Japan ever. _Ever_. He's throwing his entire manga collection away. He's... he doesn't know. Doing something else. Never watching anime again, or—the point is, Japan is dead to him if this shit keeps on happening.

Somehow he gets a hand free, stops panicking enough that he gets some semblance of control over his limbs and kicks out, catches the harionago in the stomach with his knee and punches it in the face hard enough that it… is thrown backwards. Huh.

Its back hits up against a tree, and it's _winded._ Stiles doesn't have time to gloat or anything, or no, it's not like he would be gloating, more like staring down at his hand in awe, because that's _never_ happened before. He's great at punching—even knocked out a few people—he's just not usually… superhuman.

It takes a second or two for the harionago to get her bearings, and then she's flying right back at him, her hair wrapping around his arms and screeching out something that is either Latin or Japanese or a bastardized mix of the two. He's not sure he could understand her even if she was speaking English, though. Gone is the high-pitched whisper. Now her voice is guttural, deep, _demonic_.

"Stiles!" Someone yells. Derek, this time. Because of course it is. He can't look around, though, because the harionago's hair is squeezing his arms tight enough for it to hurt—sharp and acute and if she's allowed to keep doing it he's going to start bleeding more than he already is—and she's _everywhere_. He's surrounded by leathery, unnecessarily strong limbs and sentient hair and he's _trying._ He's fucking _trying_ , but he can't do anything, and no one's helping him. He just keeps hearing their voices calling his name, like—like they're not even _here_. Like they're figments of his imagination and he's stuck in this fucking nightmare until he wakes up.

Except he's not asleep. Right? Right. He's… he's sure of that. He can feel pain, and he's so very very very aware of what's happening, and he _feels_ awake.

He does.

Except no one is here, and the sky, where he can see it past the harionago's screeching face and her sentient hair and the trees behind her, is dark and gloomy, the clouds ominous. And the ground he's getting pushed down into, he _swears_ , is sinking, is wrapping around his limbs and pulling him in like an overstuffed couch. And _for fucks sake_ , he's not a warrior, not a… not a _god_ what had she called him? The talking cat? Diana. Tsuki no senshi.

He's not that. He's Stiles. He's Stiles in a goddamned skirt getting pushing into the ground by a shrieking Japanese demon and he would really rather be anywhere but where he is right now. Except he's not.

He's here. And if this is a dream, great, dandy, just more reasons to get a therapist. If it's not, he's going to die if he doesn't get his head in the fucking game and do _something_ other than writhe around and hope she doesn't hit him hard enough to kill.

"Stiles, for fucks sake, please, _please_ —" Derek's voice is echoing in his ears, coming from somewhere to the right. Except it's not, because if Derek was here, he'd _be_ here, and goddamnit is Stiles getting tired. His vision is blurry from tears—an involuntary reaction to the tendril of hair that's wrapped around his neck, squeezing and squeezing and _fuck_. He punches out, even though it makes the hair that's wrapped around his arm squeeze tighter, squeeze tight enough that he feels the skin break and blood start dripping down onto his face. The punch lands, and the demon screeches, except she doesn't move, doesn't do anything except keep struggling against him, her mouth open, gaze locked with his like the only thing she's in this for is to eat his face or something.

Right? She's probably going to eat his face. That's how nightmares work.

"Fucking _hell_ ," he yells, or the hair is still around his neck, so it's more like a croak. He pushes up, kicks out, his limbs jerking and flailing in the hopes of getting an advantage— _any_ advantage.

"Her _hair_ , Stiles." Diana's voice, this time, farther away than he remembers, and god if this isn't a dream he's going to find her and he's going to throw her in the middle of the fucking drainage ditch, animal abuse be damned. That _thing_ isn't a cat—Stiles is cool with cats—it's a…it's an abomination. A _useless_ abomination.

He grabs out, and suddenly his world is tilted, and he's straddling the demon's waist (ew), and her hair is _stabbing_ him. He can feel it—it's definitely happening. There are definitely barbs poking at him, going into his skin like high velocity needles, white hot and inescapable. But he's in control… or more in control than he was.

His skin is thrumming again, _vibrating_ , even, glowing blue and he doesn't know what's happening but his arms move, break free of the tendrils of hair that are holding him back, the pain infinitesimal compared to the sudden fucking _anger,_ the desperation and blind will, that's making everything vibrant and too bright and he—fuck—his—

His hands are prying her—its—mouth apart, and he doesn't know how they got there, and even worse, it's _working_. He knows its teeth are tearing at his palms, can feel the sharp pain of its sharpened teeth against his skin, but it's _working_. Stiles is overpowering it, and its eyes are growing wide and its hair is wrapping around his neck, his head, stabbing at his eyes and his skin and it's a fucking nightmare.

He knows. It has to be. He doesn't want this to be anything _other_ than a nightmare, so… so it has to be. There are voices around him, but he can't catch what they're saying, so he figures it's either an illusion, or the noise of his impending death.

Whatever.

He yells—screams—for no apparent reason other than to distract himself from the burning pain in his muscles, the blood dripping down his skin, the whole dirty _wrongness_ of this situation, squeezing his thighs to keep it pinned in place, prying its mouth apart slowly, ever so slowly, not fully understanding _why_ he's decided to break its jaw just knowing that it's what he wants to do.

What he has to do. What he _needs_ to do.

There's a sick cracking sound, something that's biological and somehow _hollow_ , a pained whimper from the harionago and a sudden limpness in the tendrils of hair that are still attacking him. Then his hands move again, and they're around its neck this time, straining against the grip it has on them, ignoring the way its claws have shredded tracks into his skin down to the bone.

His vision starts fading, and he blames the tendril of hair around his neck, the barb that's digging into his jugular, but he doesn't stop. He _can't_ , because suddenly all that matters is that he kill her—kill it—before whatever is happening to him… happens.

He breaks its neck, and it freezes, eyes glowing blue—so blue, electric blue, the same blue as the lines carved into his skin—and then there's a sob, the sound of something heavy hitting up against cold metal, incessant beeping and muted voices, and then everything fades to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my a _twist_   
> 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'ed. Excuse the mess, my loves.

Stiles wakes up violently, opens his mouth wide to breathe, scrambling at his neck to pull away at phantom tendrils of ink black, greedy hair. His back arches, body convulsing painfully, and somewhere to his right he hears the sound of clattering metal. Vaguely, he realizes there's nothing around his neck, there's no demon over him or under him and all he can see is _white_. He's fucking blinded, and he can't fucking breathe, no matter how many times he gulps in for air, mouth wide like a fish out of water. But there are—there's an aching in his limbs that's deep and a pressure on his chest and he's so cold, _painfully_ cold—

He's panicking, and he knows it, can't do anything to stop it as he lets out a choked-off whimper, as he attempts to curl up only to realize his limbs aren't moving how he wants them to. His heart is going to jump out of his chest it's beating so hard and he can't _stop_ any of it.

"—Stiles! Shit. Shit. _Shit."_ He's not going to say it's Scott, even though it _sounds_ like Scott, because the last time he heard him he wasn't there— _couldn't_ have been there, and Stiles doesn't know which way is up anymore. "Deaton! Derek! _Someone_ get in here he's awake!"

Stiles turns his head, and there's a figure—shadowed, blurry—standing over him, and his throat closes up. He manages to scramble backwards, adrenaline and something else, probably, helping him to move, and suddenly he's falling, catching himself at the last minute on hard concrete with his elbows, pain vibrating up his arms and he cries out again, this time the nose high and child-like. If he cared about anything other than the confusion and the pain he would be embarrassed.

(He doesn't care about anything else other than the confusion and the pain, so he's not.)

" _Stiles_ ," Scott's voice says again, and a pair of arms grabs at his, and he's looking at the ground in all its grey, blurry, polished glory, but he manages somehow to lash out, hit the… the whatever it is in the stomach with his shoulder as he tackles it to the ground, and then his hands are around its throat and he's right back to where he was before everything went black.

"St—get _off_ , dude! It's me! Scott. It's Scott!" It's Scott's face that's looking up at him, eyes wide, wolfed out but he's not _doing_ anything, so—maybe…

A pair of arms wraps around his middle from behind before he can decide what to do, and then he's yanked up, deposited on something that's cold and metal before he can even think about struggling.

" _Stiles_ ," Derek says. Stiles is squeezing his eyes shut, not really caring if it is Derek or not because all he can concentrate on is the too-fast fluttering of his heart and the burning in his lungs and the way his throat is closing up, and how he's already half collapsed on the metal something— he thinks it's a gurney, so he's 90 percent sure he's at Deaton's, inside one of the sparse examining rooms because _why not_ —arms trembling as he tries to hold himself up.

He's a mess, and he doesn't know _why_ , doesn't even know what's happening, and god everything is confusing and he just wants answers. Except maybe at the moment he wants to be able to breathe first. That would be nice. To breathe.

Breathing is good.

"Mr. Stilinski," Deaton says from somewhere close by. "I—"

"—He's having a panic attack, Deaton. The sedative; you said you had a sedative if he woke up having a pani—"

"—As a last resort, _yes_ , but I'd prefer not to medicate him just yet. I think he's had enough medication, don't you?"

"He's going to _hurt_ himself if we—"

Stiles lifts up a hand, palm out, hoping they know that it means he wants them to shut the fuck up. He curls into himself, leaning down despite the pain until his cheek is against the cold metal—so he has something to concentrate on, other than himself—and then he just _breathes_.

He thinks about anything other than the sound of his heartbeat or the way his breath is rattling in his chest or, you know, that he doesn't know what's happening and that he thinks, maybe, that he killed someone, killed them with his hands wrapped around their throat and he can still _feel_ the warm wetness of their blood and—

Okay, no there's… he left his laptop on, he's pretty sure. Before Scott called him. He was watching some stupid video on Youtube about—he can't remember. But he was watching it. He _was_. He was laughing, he remembers, or snorting, at least, glancing at his phone every couple of minutes because he had texted Derek three hours ago—some inane question that he can't remember at the moment; maybe it had something to do with food—and he still hadn't texted back.

Right. He had nothing to do, because it's summer and the only thing he has, commitment wise, is the ghostwriting job he started last year for some extra cash. It's good because he's not actually required to report to a physical job location—means that if supernatural shit goes down, he doesn't have to spend half the day worrying about what excuse he's going to use if he's maimed—and he gets free research on a shitload of stuff he would normally never think about.

Yeah, he was sitting in front of his computer, and—

"Stiles," Scott says, and Stiles twitches at the sound, realizes he's not breathing hard anymore, that his heartbeat is just quick and not dangerously fast, and that he's okay. Relatively.

He's alive.

Hopefully.

"Hey," he grunts, shifts so that it's his forehead against the cold metal now, and not his cheek.

"You need to sit up, Mr. Stilinski," Deaton says. "Scott, Derek, maybe help him."

A pair of hands that he recognizes as Scott's grips at his shoulders and pulls him upright. His eyes are still closed, and he gives himself a couple of seconds—a couple of breathes—before he opens them. Or, attempts to open them. Really, he gets halfway there and the light is too much so he just stays like that, squinting.

Derek and Scott are standing in front of him, with Deaton a little to his right, and their faces are _kind_ of blurry but not enough that he can't make out their expressions. They actually look a little similar, which is terrifying. Both of them are clean, as in it's been more than a couple of hours since he lost consciousness clean. As in they both had time to take a shower—recently, if the still damp quality to Derek's hair is anything to go by.

They look good. Definitely more corporeal than… before. When he—

Stiles gulps, looking at where he's still wearing a pair of dirtied jeans, gripping at the edges of the metal gurney with hands that won't stop trembling. "Did I—" he starts, and then has to clear his throat because his voice is hoarse, "Did I kill someone?"

"What?" Scott asks.

"You were—" Derek tries.

"Hallucinations, Mr. Stilinski," Deaton says over them, and Stiles blinks, watches as he takes a step closer, shines a light in Stiles's right eye. "They're powerful things."

It takes maybe a couple of seconds for the dots to connect, but when they do, Stiles makes a noise—a whimper, fine, okay—at the back of his throat. He doesn't know if it's a sound of relief or terror. "I felt—I broke its neck. It was choking me. Deaton, I _felt_ that, how—?"

"You attempted to… _engage_ with others multiple times," Dr. Deaton says, takes a stethoscope out of his pocket and slides it under Stiles's shirt to press down on his spine, and if Stiles wasn't so weak he would mock Deaton's word choice, because _really_? _Engage?_ "Breathe in, please." Stiles breathes in. "I gave you a sedative that restricted your movements. Even then your vitals were at dangerous levels for around seven hours, around there. You—"

"—Dad? My dad?" Stiles interrupts.

"Called away three hours ago," Deaton says, "to process the hunters you helped capture." He makes a noise of doctorly approval, and then the stethoscope is gone, and Deaton is doing something to his neck. Doing something to the bandages on his neck.

(He remembers a dull pain. An acute pinching. Fading consciousness and being carried and then—)

Stiles snorts at that. "Right," he says, " _Helped_. Sure. If—"

"You killed someone?" Derek asks, quietly, almost quiet enough that Stiles doesn't hear him. "In your dream?"

"Hallucination," Deaton corrects.

"Isn't there a taboo about asking what someone what they saw in a hallucination?" Stiles asks. He can't let himself look directly at Derek because all he remembers is getting carried through the forest and his mouth spewing shit that he hadn't meant to say and… and he _knows_ that wasn't a hallucination.

The whole speaking without thinking thing.

He's just hoping if he doesn't look at him maybe they'll both forget it.

"Just a nightmare," Stiles says, and he can hear the plaintive lilt to his voice even as he does. "Turns out I didn't—" he still doesn't believe that. It had felt real. Still feels real. His neck hurts and his hands ache and he just feels _heavy_ , so how is he supposed to believe it was only a dream (a hallucination) when it had felt so _real?—_ "so it's good. Stupid, even. Just some… what did it, anyway? What did they shoot me with?"

"A hallucinogenic," Deaton says, and wow, _no shit_. "There's magic in it, but what kind I haven't been able to find out other than, for once, it's not wolfsbane."

"Glory be," Stiles mutters, and Scott lets out a bark of laughter that definitely sounds forced. He pushes forward, not in Deaton's way but definitely _hovering_ , and gets a hand on Stiles's shoulder, grips hard enough to distract Stiles from the whirlpool of shitty thoughts he's five seconds away from thinking about.

He wonders if they can smell the fear on him, wonders if he smells like prey. He _feels_ like prey; small and paranoid and _beaten_ (not the first time he's felt this way). He's tired, and he knows if he starts thinking about whatever it is that happened, he's going to find something that makes it all worse.

He always does, but whatever; he's safe now. Relatively.

Or was he ever in danger.

Fuck.

"What happened," —he waves his hand at Derek and Scott— "while I was… out?"

"Brought you here," Scott says, but Stiles doesn't miss the look he shares with Derek before he talks. Ugh. He kind of misses when the two of them didn't like each other.

(Not that they're best friends now. Not that _any_ of them are best friends now. It's just—years of fighting against enemy after enemy after enemy brings people closer, you know?)

"Brought you here," Scott says again, "or Derek did. Erica and Boyd and I—we got the hunters. Called your dad. Uh, we've been taking shifts—"

"—you seriously have not been watching me?" Stiles interrupts, and when Scott looks at him, unapologetic, he just sighs and scratches at his nose.

His hands are covered in dirt, just like everything about him, actually. They're still trembling, and Stiles catches the way Derek is watching him.

Carefully. Derek is watching him carefully, and he hates it.

"You were in pain," Deaton says. He's not examining Stiles any more. Just standing in front of him, flanked by Derek and Scott, looking… Deaton-like. "Physical pain, which makes this whole thing evenstranger. It wasn't just mental, what happened. We're calling them hallucinations but that's only because we don't know what else to call them."

"So I—" So I did kill someone thing, Stiles wants to say. He doesn't. "Can I go? Maybe sleep it off, some?" Hah. Like he's going to sleep again. _Sure._ "Or maybe go see my dad. If the hunters see me they'll start talk—"

"They dragged me to a shack in the woods and tried to saw my arm off," Derek interrupts. "I don't think they're the type who need a _reason_ to do something."

"What does that have to do with me going to see—"

"It has _everyth_ —"

"You just woke up from seven hours of… an ordeal that has obviously taken a toll on your body, not to mention your mind, Stiles," Deaton interjects. Derek's face looks apoplectic. It's kind of funny. "I don't think it's necessary. But if you'd rather go home, then I suggest someone stay with you for at least the first five hours."

"I can—"

"No, you need to go see Allison," Derek interrupts. "I'll take him. It's not like I'm going to be any useful tonight. They screwed my arm up and it's not" —he clears his throat— "it's not healing right.

Scott gives Derek a look, but Deaton is poking at the bandage over his neck again, and Stiles fists his hands, lets the pain of his nails digging into his palms distract him from the nasty sick muscle memory of wire-strong tendrils squeezing, slicing into his skin like a thousand scalpels.

"My dad will probably be home in a couple of hours," Stiles says, when Deaton's done. "Right? You don't need to—"

Scott says, "he's staying with you, assface," at the same time Derek says, "I'm staying. Shut up."

Stiles feels nostalgic for sophomore year, when it was easy bossing Scott around. With both of them looking at him, it's… not an option.

And maybe he's not looking forward to being alone again.

 

* * *

 

"I said I can _do it_ ," Stiles seethes, gripping at the handrail a little harder than necessary. "Fuck, dude, it's not like I've got a broken limb or anything. Just… back off."

"You're sweating. And _shivering_." Derek is pulling at his shoulders, trying to help him up the stairs to his room, but Stiles dealt with the way Derek's body fit against his when he walked him to the car at Deaton's and again when he walked him to the front door, held Stiles up as Derek got the spare key Dad keeps under the welcome mat and unlocked the door.

Just… space. It would be _nice_.

"Would you just—" Derek stops, and Stiles can _feel_ his eyes roll, hears the exaggerated exhale that means he's giving himself a pep talk— "let me help? It'll be much easier; for both of us."

"Fine. I can walk, though. No need to carry, thanks," Stiles says, after a minute of silence that he uses _just_ to show Derek he can make him wait for a minute.

God, he's immature.

Derek sighs. "Right," he says, and then his hand is on Stiles's shoulder, not pushing, just… there. It's a distraction from the weakness in his limbs and the pounding in his head, and Stiles manages to walk up the stairs, even though by the time he's in the hallway in front of his room he's dizzy, his vision swimming, colors coalescing into bright astral shapes, like when you close your eyes and press your fingers, hard, to your eyelids.

He doesn't let Derek open his door though; doesn't let him push Stiles towards his bed. "Bathroom," he says instead, when Derek reaches for the handle. "I need to wash this" —he gestures at the dirt and blood and _viscous…_ stuff that's all over him— "off."

Derek sighs again. "Right," he says (again), "that makes sense. You need me to get you clothes or anything?"

"Look at you dude." Stiles grins, pats his shoulder as he hobbles past. "Nursemaid Hale, to the rescue."

"Fuck off."

"Go turn down my bed or something, Nurse Hale." Stiles pauses before he opens the bathroom door. "And yeah. New clothes would be… good. Thanks."

In the mirror, his skin is sallow, smeared with dirt and blood, shadows under his eyes and hair matted and disheveled. He must've bitten his lip at one point or another, because there's a fresh scar there that starts to hurt as he looks.

At least he's not stuck in magical Roman armor. At least there aren't blue, glowing lines carved into his skin. At least he never touched that thing. The yokai. He's glad he didn't touch it, even if it still feels like he did. Glad it doesn't exist—glad none of _that_ was real.

He's never going to fucking watch _The Ring_ again.

It's not as difficult as he thought it was going to be to get undressed. His hands are still shaking, yeah, probably some side effect from whatever he was shot with and whatever Deaton gave him, so the buttons of his jeans are a problem, but everything else is fine.

He only gets stuck in his t-shirt for like, five seconds, panics for three, and then he's naked, pointedly ignoring his reflection in the mirror and hobbling over to the tub. He takes a shower, makes the water just-shy-of-scalding hot, scrubs at his dirty, bloody skin and ruins the bandage over the puncture wound on his neck because he forgets it's there in the first place. When his fingers are wrinkled and his head dangerously light, scrapes and cuts stinging from the soap he scrubbed himself with, he turns the water off and grabs the first towel he can reach.

There's a pile of clothes—sweat pants, an old track t-shirt, the lone pair of Batman boxer briefs he fucking forgot he even owned until now—on the toilet, which means Derek came in while he was in the shower. Which means he didn't lock the door.

Oops.

And for fucks sakes, he _had_ to pick the Batman ones?

Asshole.

Stiles still puts them on, anyway _._

His neck is black and blue, the discoloration spreading out from the puncture wound—it's not a normal puncture wound; the skin is inflamed, edges of the actual wound raised and cracked—that's scarily close to his jugular. It's bleeding, because he scrubbed the scab away along with the dirt that was caked… everywhere, and he has a terrifying moment of vertigo when he sees the blood dripping down to his collarbone.

_Pressure on his neck. Pushed down into strangely porous ground until it feels like he's being swallowed. A gaping maw inches from his face. His arms aren't strong enough to push it off and he's not used to fighting like this, not used to being so close. There's black hair stinging and stabbing and—_

"Stiles?" Derek is outside the door, and Stiles realizes his heart is beating hard in his chest. "You're uh—can I come in?"

Stiles snorts. "I'm fine," he says. "Just getting dressed."

There's a pause, and then, "you _know_ I can hear lies, right?"

"Perfectly aware," Stiles says. There are bandages in the cabinet underneath the sink, and he grunts as he bends down, his thigh muscles burning like he just hiked ten miles uphill. "I'm good, dude. Just go downstairs and wa—"

The bathroom door opens, steam billowing out past Derek as he just… stands there, looking down at him. Stiles doesn't know what the hell his expression means. "What are you doi—you're bleeding."

"Yes," Stiles says, "Observant."

He pulls the first aid kit out and sets it on the counter, pushes himself up to stand with only minimal grimacing. It's an accomplishment, as far as he's concerned. He's tired and he wants to (doesn't want to; is going to, because he's having trouble keeping his eyes open as it is) sleep, and at the moment the dexterity it's going to take to open the bandages and then put them over the wound seems daunting.

Really fucking daunting.

"Uh," he says, glancing at Derek, who's still standing in the doorway, although he's relaxed in the seconds that Stiles has been staring at the bandages. "Do you think you could help with this?"

"Sit down," Derek says, gestures at the toilet with his chin.

Stiles sits, looks at the tiled wall opposite him and cringes as Derek opens one of those alcohol swabs and wipes at the skin of his neck(he's pretty sure it's clean, but whatever).

"What did you see?" Derek asks, and Stiles could ignore him—could even tell him he doesn't want to talk about it—but Derek looks (sounds, feels, whatever) like he thinks this is his fault. And _god_ Stiles has enough to deal with; a guilt-ridden Derek he does not need.

(There are still deep red grooves on Derek's arm, and his fingers are clumsy, swollen even. Stiles wonders what happened to _him_.)

"I'll tell you if you tell me," Stiles says, eventually, then gestures at Derek's arm. "Why's it not healing quicker?"

"Chainsaw had wolfsbane—"

"—fucking _of course_ ," Stiles mutters. "Fucking wolfsbane."

"They ambushed me while I was running," Derek continues, shrugging. "Fought them off; they got me with something that knocked me out. Shit happened, then Scott showed up."

"Eloquent," Stiles says. Derek has a casual hand splayed over his Adam's apple, holding his neck still while he presses down the bandage over Stiles's skin with his thumbs, and it's distracting. In a good way. Which is probably bad.

It's not like he _wants_ to think about the other option—razor sharp hair wrapping, tightening, choking, demonic eyes and pain, a lot of fucking pain—but it would be convenient if he didn't smell like arousal. He _is_ only in sweatpants at the moment.

It's inconvenient.

"You?" Derek asks, clearing his throat. He's breathing through his mouth, which is just making it all _worse_. Goddamnit of course he has to smell it.

"I was—" Shit how does he explain it? The armor shit was weird. The cat shit was _weirder_. But the demon— "Ever heard of something called a harionago?"

"No," Derek says, standing to put away the first aid kit, his movements precise and a little too controlled.

"Me neither. Or I thought I did," —Stiles pauses and wrinkles his nose, combs his fingers through his hair because it's plastered to his forehead and there's water dripping in his eyes— "I'll look it up later. It just—there's sentient hair—"

"Sentient _hair_ ," Derek says.

"Barbs at the end," Stiles remembers, "black and fucking long and it has this skin that's… grey and leathery, clammy to the touch and teeth that, uh… are sharp. It's strong."

"And it's Japanese?"

Stiles snorts. His shirt is on the counter, and all he has to do is reach for it and get it on, and then he's one step closer to being done with… this.

He needs to call Dad, though.

"Apparently so was I," Stiles says, "Or no, I was a… a tsuki no something. A warrior of the _moon."_ It sounds stupid now. It _feels_ stupid now. God, he was kidnapped by a talking cat.

Stiles reaches for the shirt and manages to get it on after a shorter struggle than he anticipated, and then he stands, closing his eyes against the vertigo.

When he opens them again, Derek's face is pinched, eyebrows furrowed and mouth slightly open like he's trying to remember something. Or stopping himself from saying something.

"I'm, uh…" Stiles motions at the open door and slides past Derek, although he's walking slow enough that Derek catches up to him and puts a hand on his back before he even gets to his room. "Thanks for helping, dude," he says. "You were supposed to be the damsel in distress this time, though. You know… and not me."

Derek grunts, and then Stiles is falling into bed, sighing a little at the soft sheets and the softer pillows, curling his toes into the mattress and using his good arm—the arm opposite the neck… _thing_ —to pull his comforter over his head.

He wants to sleep—he doesn't want to sleep. Or he wants to sleep if and only if someone can guarantee him he won't remember his dreams.

He still needs to call Dad. Maybe Derek will…

Derek clears his throat; Stiles doesn't move.

"Senshi means warrior in Japanese," Derek finally says, and that gets Stiles's attention. He grunts to show he's listening, and Derek continues. "I—uh. Have you ever watched Sailor Moon?" It's an… anime."

Stiles blinks.

No.

No no no.

"I—" he tries, but his throat is closing up. He's probably going to laugh. Laugh hysterically or cry hysterically. One of the two. "Oh my fucking god," he manages, not lifting his head from where it's smashed into his pillow.

Derek makes a noise, like a whimper, loud enough that Stiles turns his head, pushes the covers down enough that he can peek over, and Derek is—his hand is over his mouth, and the room is dark, but his shoulders are shaking, and—

"Oh my fucking god, are you _laughing_ at me?" Stiles croaks.

Derek meets his eyes, looks away, and snorts out a laugh. Then another, and then he starts laughing so hard he has to sit down at Stiles's desk so he doesn't collapse on the floor. Or at least, that's how it looks to Stiles.

Stiles's cheeks suddenly feel hot, and he pulls his pillow over his head. Doesn't press it down though; Derek laughing isn't a common occurrence. And it's nice to hear, even if he is definitely laughing at Stiles's expense.

"It was _terrifying_ , okay," Stiles mutters. "You had to be there."

"You—this isn't—I'm sorry," Derek gets out, still laughing, head in his hands, elbows resting on his thighs. It's a good thing the blinds to Stiles's window are closed, or else the early morning light would be casting shadows on Derek's face, and Stiles… doesn't want that.

(He does.)

"Was there a—" Derek sputters out after a minute. "Was there a talking cat?'

Stiles sighs. "Diana," he says, and that sends Derek into another fit of hysterics. It's kind of… catching. Stiles is smiling, at least, and he figures it's better to smile than it is to, uh, not.

He never watched Sailor Moon. He's heard of it, of course. Fuck, he had an anime phase back in middle school, plastered some generic anime dude decal on his wall in 8th grade and didn't take it off for years. He _knows_ anime.

"It's so _you_ ," Derek chokes out, mid-laugh, after a little bit, "Fuck, I mean, it's horrible, but it's—"

"I was wearing a skirt," Stiles is laughing now; he can't help it. "Or, you know, armor? Those Roman leather things—" He stops because Derek's eyes are bulging and he's pressing his lips together so they make a thin line. Maybe it's shock that's making him so susceptible to the whole laughing thing. "You can laugh, dude. This is kind of hilarious, in hindsight."

Derek laughs.

"I didn't have any, like, key phrases, though," Stiles says, lifts an exhausted arm to scratch at his chin. "And to be fair, the cat was pretty convincing. And the yoka—the demon thing was pretty terrifying."

"The hunters, or one of them" Derek says, eventually, once he's calmed down enough to speak. "Bill. Talked about himself in the third person."

"Like—" Stiles snorts. "Bill doesn't like this one. Bill thinks we should check the perimeter? Bill's got a hankerin' for some bacon?"

"Pretty fucking much," Derek says, "He was the one that did the—" he gestures towards his arm, still a little limp, hand curled in Derek's lap. "I told him my name is Derek, not Bill."

Stiles groans, laughs a little. "That's a horrible comeback."

"He didn't seem to think so," Derek points out, shrugging. "Got a reaction out of him."

"You're fucking nuts."

'I'm not the one who managed to turn Sailor Moon into a nightmare," Derek says.

"…Touché."

"I, uh—I won't tell anyone else, if it's—"

"Nah, dude," Stiles says, "Scott's just going to keep asking. I'd rather it be funny then, like… damaging, you know?"

"Okay," Derek says, and then it's silent for long enough that Stiles knows he's not going to be awake for much longer. There was something, though, that he still needed to—right.

"Dude," he says (mumbles, more like), "I'm gone any minute now, but before you leave could you, uh, call my dad? Just tell him I'm sleeping, or…" he trails off because he doesn't know what else to say. His brain is already sleep-addled.

Stiles shifts, turns slightly and manages to finagle his pillow so it's under his head again, curls his right leg up until he's comfy and lets out a sigh because mattresses are fucking _amazing_.

"You said something," Derek says, and his voice is closer—close enough that Stiles startles, turns his head to see that Derek is standing in the middle of his room, arms crossed over his chest nervously. "Things. You said things while I was carrying you—do you remember?"

"Did I finally call you out on the tight jeans thing?" Stiles grunts, feigns sleepiness even though nope, those words just fucking took away any hope he had of getting comfortable any time soon. Maybe if he doesn't _technically_ lie, Derek won't notice? If he just pretends ignorance? It's worked a couple of times with Scott. "Did I make weird references or something, dude, you gotta help me out here."

Derek sighs, rolls his eyes dramatically even though he still keeps his arms crossed, still looks uncomfortable and slightly pissed off. "You told me you wanted—"

Stiles cringes at the way his heartbeat is already speeding up, tries to shift to hide his face, but Derek stills, looks over at him with sharp eyes.

"You remember," he says, and Stiles sighs, glances at the window to see that the light shining through the blinds is more orange now, brighter than the dull blue it had been previously. "Stiles, would you—"

"Something about—" Stiles wrinkles his nose and squeezes his eyes shut— "wanting. Things."

The pause following that is long and _thick_ and god Stiles knows he's in bad shape because he's making everything into an innuendo without even trying.

"Did you mean it?" Derek asks, and his voice is stilted; careful. Closer, too.

Stiles opens his eyes and looks up at where Derek's taken a step closer, is looking down at him with something that's between a frown and a pout.

He—

Fuck.

"Yes," Stiles says. "Remember? You can hear it when I lie."

Derek blinks, looks at him, looks away, adjusts his arms so they're crossed even more tightly across his chest. He takes a shuddering breath, and Stiles doesn't know what any of it means except he's kind of hoping it means something good.

"Oh," Derek says, and the word is soft, said like Derek still thinks he's lying.

"Come _on_." Stiles turns around to lie on his back, runs his hands through his hair. "It's been _kind of_ fucking obvious, dude. What's with the—" he makes his voice a high falsetto— " _oh_."

"It's just an _oh_ , it's a—a—it's a response," Derek says.

"… oh," Stiles says, and only half because he's a spiteful little shit. He sits up, crosses his legs and rubs at the corners of his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. For a while, it's silent, and Stiles should use the time to think—make up some excuse or find out a way to respond—but his mind remains stubbornly blank. "You don't have to—" he says. "You don't have to do anything, I mean. It's not like we—"

"Me too," Derek interrupts, expression determined (almost _comically_ determined). Stiles blinks.

"Me too… what?"

"What you said. Me too. I want… those things," Derek finishes lamely. Stiles's chest does a little squeeze and flutter thing.

"Interesting," he manages, then clears his throat. "Are you trying to make me feel better about the whole—"

"No, for fucks sake, I'm trying to say that I want—!" Derek stops, looks away. "You."

Stiles is blushing again. It's not like he's a virgin. It's not like he hasn't heard anyone say something like that, not like he hasn't gotten a blowjob in the backseat of his jeep, hasn't, ya know, accrued some _experience,_ but this is _Derek_ , and shit, as long as Stiles has known him he's never seen Derek look so unsure of himself.

It's adorable.

"You want to catch a movie sometime, then?" Stiles asks, because he doesn't know what else to say, and false bravado has gotten him this far.

(I'd like your lips on mine, please. As soon as possible. Could we like be touching? Is this a confession or like a pre-confession? Am I interpreting this the wrong way? Would it be wrong to tell you about all the times I've gotten off thinking about how your Adam's apple bobs when you swallow?)

Derek looks taken aback for a second or two. "Like on a date?"

"No like an interview, _yes_ a fucken' date. That's what two dudes who, uh…" Stiles runs out of steam before he can get to saying 'want each other' and just stops to cringe.

"Yes," Derek says, and even though he's feigning nonchalance Stiles can _see_ the way his shoulders are tense.

"This is awkward," Stiles says, and Derek laughs at that.

" _Yeah_ ," he agrees.

"You wanna like kiss now or wait until we're sure we want to go steady? You know, seal the deal." And yeah, okay, Stiles is joking, except that he's also not, so when Derek laughs—it's kind of a desperate 'what the fuck did I get myself into' laugh—and walks over, Stiles isn't particularly surprised.

Excited; aroused; not surprised.

(A little surprised, maybe.)

Derek leans down, expression shuttered, shoulders tense, and Stiles ignores the little voice that's telling him to freeze up and listens, instead, to the louder one that's telling him to grab at the collar of Derek's shirt and pull until their lips smash together.

He lets out a laugh and Derek huffs out what is probably amusement, and then he tilts his head and kisses into Derek's mouth. He's had practice with the kissing stuff, but this—it's different. Derek's stubble is rasping against his jaw and his lips are surprisingly soft, a little moist. His eyelashes keep tickling Stiles's face and he keeps _moving_ , running his hand up until it's in Stiles's hair and shifting until they're close, so close.

"Okay," Stiles breathes out, and Derek murmurs something, eyes closed, breath hot against Stiles's skin, and pushes in for another kiss that… it's—. _God_ , it's fucking sensual, and Stiles can't help but reach out and get his hands in Derek's hair, grasping at it and pulling him forward until he's got a knee in between Stiles's legs, is moaning into the kiss (little hums and gasps, barely there tremors in his fingers where they're pressing into the skin just behind Stiles's ear).

His skin is suddenly warm, pulse racing, exhaustion forgotten in the face of something better, much better, and Derek is pushing forward again until Stiles has to lean back on his elbows, shivering at the sensation of Derek's chest against his, at the way their bodies are suddenly so fucking perfectly aligned and—

" _Fuck_ ," Derek gasps, breaks off the kiss for no reason and rests his forehead against Stiles's, opens his eyes until Stiles gets the horrible urge to spout poetry about twin whirlpools of green and brown and yellow that sink into endless black.

"Right, yes, good idea?" Stiles offers, and his voice sounds wrecked.

"You're exhausted," Derek says, but he says it like he's trying to convince himself, pushes forward to press a kiss at the corner of Stiles's lips, and okay, Stiles likes that.

"I—" Who the fuck is Stiles kidding. He groans, falling back until he's lying down, head sinking down into his pillow, and scrubs at his face. "God I _am_ , dude. Aren't you?"

Derek shrugs. "Used to it," he says. He hesitates, and then, "I could stay, until Sher—until your dad gets back."

Stiles laughs. "You want to?"

Derek sits back, clears his throat and gets a hand around Stiles's wrist, presses his fingers down where Stiles's pulse is fast and erratic. "I want to," he says.

* * *

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Say something about the abrupt ending.  
> I dare you.  
>   
> Nah, just fuckin' with you ~~( _or am I?_ )~~. This was a blast to write and think up, so a special thanks goes out to my lovely prompter, northamericanprince, for paying for my services!!

**Author's Note:**

> And you guys thought I was sane. HAH. 
> 
> ALSO. I used references! See [THIS](http://zosofi.tumblr.com/post/49381723071/sm-necklaces-by-gummyoctopus) for the pendant. It's most similar to the second from the left. [ I used this](http://kevinwada.tumblr.com/post/33643639356/i-am-so-happy-to-finally-get-to-debut-this-piece) for Stiles's costume--Sailor Moon is in the middle--except there are a few choice changes in the design. And finally I came across [this](http://kisskicker.tumblr.com/post/28967616038/who-else-is-ready-for-the-gritty-techno-future) a while ago and still love it--the blue lines in Stiles's skin mimic the tiara in this pic.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Podfic-Full Mooned](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3468734) by [kitthogian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitthogian/pseuds/kitthogian)




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